Total Drama: Mike's Backstory
by Stoerm
Summary: This was written several months ago. After everything that happened with his personalities and all, I was starting to devise an idea of what might have caused them to exist. So here's the first of the series. Enjoy. Also note, I was able to catch two errors, but was unable to find them again. If you can tell me where and if you find them, thank you.
1. Chapter 1

I don't know when it really started, but I have a general idea. I believe it really all started when I saw my mother beaten to a close death right before my very eyes.

I never had very many friends, maybe one, before now. No one wanted to be acquaintances, let alone friends, to the son of the former prison inmate. My father visited the bar and drank all evening, coming back home only after he was completely the opposite of sober. Mom would cook a small dinner for us as quickly as she could, deliver the meal to the drunk, and then retreat to my room with her meal, mine, and a movie. I remained in my room as long as Dad was home, but was never able to avoid him when I got home from school. I would take a beating for being "late". Even if I had arrived at home one minute after getting off the bus, it would still be considered "late". Every day, I would have a new bruise. No one inquired about them, not even the teachers. To them, if they avoided anything to do with my family, they avoided trouble. If Mom or I ever spoke about Dad's abuse, he had pledged to kill us. We didn't put it past him. We were hostages in our own house. My life was a misery for almost my entire Elementary and Middle school year. It didn't appear to get better in High School.

The only thing I had ever looked forward to was watching a movie each night with Mom. She knew that we needed something to raise our spirits. When Mom would come up, we would position ourselves against the backboard of the bed and watch movies ranging from romantic comedies to horror flicks, although I could never tell those two movie genres apart. I, myself, would always look forward to "Adventure Movie Night" where Mom would always bring up an _Indiana Jones _movie. Those were always my favorite. I looked up to Indiana Jones and wanted to be like him. Jones was my role model. When I was eight, Mom secretly bought me an Indiana Jones fedora that I would sometimes wear when I went to school. Many of those days seemed fairly vague to me.

Even as we tried to forget of our troubles that lay lurking downstairs, Mom still was unable to escape during movie night. Dad would beckon her to make her a drink. If she took too long to provide, he would deliver a beating and she would return with a large red hand across her face. Even if she was able to avoid abuse during the movie, she would receive it when she went to bed. I would cover my own head with a pillow in fear. Fear that there was no safety in my own house.

Eventually, Mom suggested after school activities, realizing that I was safer the longer I was away from the house. So, as the only remaining after school club not filled up, she signed me up for gymnastics. I wasn't too eager for gymnastics itself, but to spend less time in what had become my prison.

My first day was overwhelming. My teacher directed us to simply call her by her name, Irene. Not Ms. Irene or anything. She figured that the best way to learn was to learn about each other first, so to develop a closer team. She revealed herself to be a Russian immigrant, which was evident by her heavy Russian accent. She told us to say our name and a short story about our families. I had nothing to say but my name and when the attention turned to me, I was frozen to the spot. All the other kids had told such stories that could seem only fantastic to me. Their father taking them fishing and hunting...how tightly knit their families were...how their parents loved and cherished each other. It was too much. Too overwhelming. Too heartbreaking. Everyone had such a great life compared to me. Each day, Mom and I cowered in the shadow of the weed, too fearful to take control, to grow, to even plea for help. I thrust my face into my hands and broke down. It was clear no one could understand why a thirteen year old, of all the people there, was in tears. They lived so well, they would never be able to put themselves in my shoes.

After class, Irene pulled me to the side and asked if I was going to be alright. I didn't know what to do, so I lied and said "Yes". Irene looked at me suspiciously and then smiled, "It's OK to be weak once in awhile. Let me tell you a story my mother told me when I was having a hard time in my life." She had said.

She told me a story about a young girl, named Svetlana, who had lived in fear of her mother. When her mother abandoned her, she worked her hardest, overcoming the challenges in her life and doing her best not to let her family and her past get in the way of her goal. In the end, it was Svetlana who reigned triumphant over the evil of her mother and made herself what her mother could have never been. I sat and listened intently. When Irene had finished she smiled and pat me on the head, "Go do what you can. Be triumphant like Svetlana."

As I walked home that night, I vaguely remember a feeling that I really could overcome my father's evil eventually. I don't recall anything else until I got home. That night, I faced my father's beatings with bravery. I did not cower. I stood there, much to his annoyance. Soon, he gave up and returned to what he had been doing. I did have a few more bruises than usual, but that night, there was no sound of my dad beating my mother. I had taken the blows for her. I had protected her.

I went to gymnastics each day, but I barely remember them. All I can recall is towards the end, the smile on Irene's face and her saying she was proud of everyone, but winking specifically at me. Sometimes I would hear saying, "Good job 'Svetlana'".

It had appeared my life was getting better. I still didn't have many friends, but I considered Irene my friend. Mom had less of a limp in her step and Dad had slightly laid back on his beatings. Mom and I still had movie night, but we sometimes ate downstairs now. Little did I know how short those times would last.

The most frightening time in my life soon dawned upon me. As I went into the boy's locker room during gymnastics, the other boys began to inquire about me. Most of them seemed older and a lot more muscular. They all backed me into the corner and asked me a multitude of things.

"How come you don't change your shirt?"

"How could such a sissy-boy be so good at something he's never done?"

They soon backed up as the oldest came up to me saying, "We'll see what he's hiding under his shirt. Probably some tattoo or gang symbol." They laughed as I struggled to keep my shirt on, but they succeeded and my secret was out. They gasped at the bruises and ran to Irene. Some of the others stayed and led me out, much to my resentment. Irene echoed the gasp that had escaped the other boy's lips earlier. She started inquiring me, but I said nothing, keeping my head down. One of the other boys spoke up, telling Irene about my father's past in prison and his recorded abusive tendencies. She frowned and then came to a silent resolution. I had a feeling that this was to call the Child Protective Services.

When I got home, I was met by the arguing of my Grandfather and father. My grandpa. The person my mother said would take me away when the final day came. The day we died.

My grandfather was written as my godparent and foster parent, if the day ever came if my father was caught and convicted of his heinous acts. As the conflict came to a close, my grandfather flashed me a sympathetic look and then shouted a final threat:

"If I cannot take my grandson peacefully, then the Cops and CPS will take him by force! If you dare harm him, they will make sure you never see the light of day again!"

Muttering followed my grandfather's departure. My eyes followed the disappearing headlights. Mom and I's last chance just faded with Grandpa's words. It was clear that my dad would not heed the warning. My gaze soon returned to my father. His flaming rage danced in his eyes. I backed up, fear twisted my stomach. Although, normally, my father was sluggish, in fury, his movements were swift and precise. Running was a dead end. Walking was a dead end. Life itself was a dead end.

His fist advanced with an inhuman slowness. Time flashed and I felt as if the entire world had stopped. As the attack came, my heart burst with an irregular beat.

The blow made contact with my mouth and blood fitfully spewed. I crashed to ground, tasting the crimson, drowning. My tongue instinctively traced my teeth. One no longer stood where it had once presented itself proudly. I winced as another blow came in contact with my stomach. I heard a gasp escape my lips. I felt as if that was the only thing that would escape now.

I saw the final shot ready. He was readying the bloody end. I felt my breath grow laborious in fear and pain. The end almost came, but was thwarted as two skinny arms wrapped themselves around the bulky arm of my father. A sound muffled with tears and sobs rose.

"Stop." Mom said as she fought back for the first and last time. My father jerked his head towards her and growled, thrusting his arm away from her, "I thought I loved you. You acted so kind when we first met. But then you went to prison. I stayed loyal, thinking you could never be so brutal. When you came back, you pretended to be as kind as you once were. But it was all a ruse. Once Mike was born, you reverted to the self that was sent to prison. I fell in love with the character. Not the actor."

I was glancing painfully. I was crying. I could feel the weight of sorrow press itself on my chest. I saw the rage build further, and soon, my father advanced and beat my mother. I couldn't bare to see her distorted by the evil man. I couldn't.

...I couldn't remember anything until after that.

When I came to, I was on the recliner, legs crossed, looking down at the bloody figures that laid face down on the carpet. A knife was adjoined to the back of both figures. Both of them lay dead. I glanced down at my own hands. Blood freshly covered my hands. Another knife lay in my lap. A strange feeling overcame me and I immediately knew, I wasn't myself.


	2. Chapter 2

I was created from the anguish, frustration, and pent up malevolence of a weak child. A fool that could never control how his life progressed. As his rage gave way, I became the strongest. I feed off the negative. I grow more powerful. I was in control of his life then and now. Let me tell you, not a sob story, but a story of shadows.

I grinned as the man Mike called his father, barreled towards me. I could feel the pain inflicted on my body from earlier hits, but it was less so. After all, pain was only really a state of mind. Leftovers on a plate. But I was a fresh slate. I quickly rolled to the side and then rose to my feet. This shocked both the mangled body of the woman and the barbarian with no style. I figured it was time to end this. I glanced around. It appeared that the kitchen was only a few steps away. That would do.

Keeping my eyes on the target, I backed slowly away. It appeared they still suspected nothing in the sudden change. I would keep it that way until the demise. I stepped through the threshold of the kitchen and examined the possibilities. I swayed, what could be considered at the time, my head. I knew what I needed. I was drawn to it. Three knives lay scattered on the counter where the woman had been preparing dinner. There. There it was. I retrieved two of the three knives and quickly avoided another swing by the lumbering moron. I wasn't where this clash began, but where it would end.

A sinister smile spread across my face as I ducked once more behind him. He was clearly flustered by his failure. Time to end this game. I adjusted my grip and swiftly ran the knife across the side of his body. It was clear by the gasp that the wound had gone as deep as it needed to. The man kneeled on one leg. His fear flooded his eyes and his breath. Fear. How sweet it is. The desperation. I cut my joy of the coward short. If he had time to collect himself, it would be trouble to crush him again. I finished it, destructing the source of such euphoria. I released the final strike, slicing the knife in a way that severed an artery. The man was on his deathbed.

I plunged the knife in his back, finishing the deed and leaving a marker. I turned my head as my peripheral vision alerted me to a movement. It was the woman. Oh. But what would be the fun of finishing off an already dying creature? Pathetic as it was, I still had no remorse. But I could still feel the strength of the love Mike had for her. Time to up the ante and pleasure myself with more spotlight in the future. I allowed her to crawl before my feet. Her hand weakly grasped my ankle. I looked down at her, a creature with no future. Well…not anymore. Yanking my ankle free, I took a slight step back. She made a slight gurgling sound, but eventually created words.

"Where's…Mike?"

Her words surprised me. I had not expected this, but it would do well to add to my enjoyment. Instead of lying and tricking, I told her words that would be used more often than not.

"Mike's gone. I'm Mal." I felt no fear from her. All I felt was despair. Despair and anger. Not nearly as energizing as fear, but still fun to evoke. I looked at her. She could survive if the police came in time, and by this time, they were bound to be close. But that isn't what I wanted, and I will always get what I want.

I dug the knife into the same place as I had with his father, severing Mike's hope for normality along with it. I won. I would, no doubt, be able to return. The mixed up child would grow further and further conflicted. I was in control.

I slunk into the kitchen a retrieved the remaining knife. The strange allure of the slick metal drew my attention. It was the only silver not adorned by crimson. I grinned as the sound of sirens grew nearer. Time to enjoy the show. I made my way across the blood-stained floor and planted myself firmly in the recliner, crossing my legs. I grimaced as I felt Mike wake up again. It was time he see what he had done. It was time.


End file.
